A picture I took the day before yesterday on a hike. This is about a mile from my house through the woods. Running off the wetlands, a stream of water runs under a foot bridge right before a walk up a huge hill. At the top of the hill you can look across the valley to the other hills, almost mountains. One spring red trilliums popped up along the rivulet. The rocks in the area are now covered with moss.
Before it goes out like a lamb, it’s time to talk about the month of March. Looking back in history we’ll remember this month, in 2020, as the time when the Coronavirus grew exponentially in the U.S.A. Not that we weren’t forewarned, by the explosion taking place in Europe, preceded by China, and Iran, etc., etc.. in previous weeks. Covid-19’s here to stay for a long time; forty five days until we see a peak, eighteen months before life goes back to normal, if it ever does. In the long haul a positive outcome to this situation can be found within ourselves; find ways to beat it psychologically, remain optimistic, and use it to be more creative and productive in our personal lives. Take up painting, the piano, reading novels, writing as much as we can. How can we reach out, and help others, and bring them into our lives? What special talents do we have that we can share? There are certainly people living in a more precarious habitat, in which I’m living. Selfishly I hope I don’t catch the virus, or be a carrier and less selfishly, pass it on to someone else. So, where do we go from here? The answer seems to be nowhere, nothing versus something, and now being never. What is true is we are all vulnerable. No-one is exempt.
Back to March. What do we know about this third month of the calendar year, which during Roman Times was the first, and not the third of the year? A month named after the god of war, called Mars. Special days in particular yearn to be celebrated. Such as St. Patrick’s day, on the 17th, especially by the Irish, but even if you haven’t an ounce of Irish in your blood, you’re always welcome to partake in Irish generosity.
On the 15th of March, back in Roman Times, an old woman warned Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.” Against his wife’s best wishes Caesar ignored the oracle and ventured out into the Roman forum only to be assassinated, and find moments before he fell to his death that his best friend had betrayed him; thus the famous quote “Et tu Brutus?” The circumstance is a reminder to follow the wisdom of Shakespeare spoken in one of his plays “Love all, trust a few, and do wrong to no-one.” And, in the wake of the Corona19, to listen to the oracle; Stay home, protect yourselves, and others.
Since I am a curious person, who seeks novelty in all things possible to brush away the the sins of idleness, and boredom, I have a trivia fact for March. Does anyone know what September, October, November and December stand for? I found this out the other day through a post by the Farmer’s Almanac. The meaning of the prefixes of these months in latin follow suit with March being the first month of the year, for Sept means seven, Octo, eight, Nove, nine, and Dece, ten. So whatever happened to January and February? There is an answer, but at this moment, I can only say; “I do not know it.” Just like there are answers surrounding the mysteries of the Coronavirus, but for now uncertainty reigns, and only time will tell.
…the moon is the guiding light. The air is crisp, birds are none to be found. Autumn hangs on, like the last leaves to fall. Muted green of olive bushes, alone reflect golden beams. The clock has spent its time. Alas! the days are longer, the light is stronger, and winter won’t be far. Sleep deeply under the evening stars.
Taking pictures helps me get in touch with feelings. Thoughts generally rush through my mind, and a mix of emotions, negative and positive can be all tangled up. When I go out with my camera, and interpret my surroundings, the scenarios I play back are put on hold.
Energy re-emerges in the waves beating against the shore. Anticipation and lethargy lie dormant within the rocks, which sit like dinosaurs on the beach. I imagine them stirring in slow motion. A golden sun, peaking out of gray clouds over still ocean water, signals optimism and hope. Self-expression comes in many shapes and forms, taking the place of words.
Photos were taken on the beach, in Carlsbad, California. Click on the images, for a full view, and titles.
A recent visit to Stillwater revealed new and exciting discoveries. Even though I came here many times before it was easy to skip over details of the city, as I was busy going back and forth across the river, to be with my aging mother. Now she is gone, but not forgotten, for she taught me to see from the heart. She would like my pictures.
Stillwater is a place I love to explore, with my camera, especially in the morning and early evening. Please see the photos individually, and read the captions I wrote.
A few years ago, I featured a page on Stillwater that barely scraped the surface. Have a look at what I found; https://tiffanycreek7.com/stillwater-minnesota/.
Evelyn went to heaven
Through the gates of evermore.
To her friend, she said,
“Rock once more.”
By TiffanyCreek
Just get to the point,
he said.
But which point,
she wondered.
Is there just one
and how do we decide
which one it is,
or should be?Just make your point
and let’s be done with it,
he stated.And her mind wandered
from that room,
to another point-
a rock at the edge of a finger
of land jutting into an ocean.
Watching water merge with sky,
she rested on that point
as waves dashed around her.Okay, she said,
after what seemed to him
too long a time,
this is my point:
We choose our beauty,
be it jagged and dark
or smooth or gleaming.But what makes something
beautiful?
We must have a standard,
he pressed.Yes, she agreed,
and then imagined
another point,
a clearing near the top
of a wooded mountain
reached only by foot
after a five hour hike.I want to tell you about a place
I once visited, she said.
Let me pull the threads of
a picture-memory
and then
let’s sort
for words
that point
toward
something
like beauty.
“Credo” By Virginia Small
Connecticut Review 2006 Vol. XXVII No. 2
Featured Image “Abandoned Farm” by Dave Dreimiller
Faribault, Minnesota is a lovely, well preserved town, about one hour and a half straight south of Minneapolis/St. Paul. One of the earliest European settlements in Minnesota, it is filled with beautiful architecture, and prominent institutions.
Florinda Udall, born in May 1833, died at age 11 years and 8 months, on January 25th, 1845. She was the daughter of Alva and Phebe Udall, from Hiram, Ohio, and had one brother, named Edward. She was a schoolmate of Lizzie Atwood Pratt and Lucretia Rudolph Garfield.
Lizzie Atwood records the death of Florinda in her diary, on January 24th, 1845, which is in conflict with the death date, on the stone: “I spent the evening at Mr. Boyds. Florinda Udall one of my schoolmates died of Bowel Complaint, after 6 days illness AE 11 years, and 8 months.” On the 26th she writes: “Florinda was buried at the center of Hiram.” The diary entry is true to the tone of Lizzie’s writing, which was matter of fact, and sparing of emotion. This was the style of most of her writing. At 12 years of age, she proved to be an objective observer of events that took place around her, in her village, and does this as well, in the case of Florinda’s illness and death.
Florinda’s name, comes from the word ‘flora,’ meaning ‘flower’ in Spanish, and is derived from Latin. It must have been sad for family and friends, when their little flower died.
On Tiffany Creek 